I had depression, so I called it psychiatric hospital. But most others on the third-floor corridor had addictions to drink, drugs and gambling.
Did they call it rehab? I don’t recall.
The man in the room beside mine, when he was first admitted, walked up and down the corridor as if in a trance. He didn’t seem to see anyone else. I think he was just very, very drunk.
At the time, I was sitting at the nurse’s table at the end of the corridor. Nurses were checking my blood pressure and dispensing my medication. I had nothing better to do, as I sat there, than watch this newcomer stagger one way then the other.
He wore rugby shirts – then and at all times. England shirts, mostly.
I would talk to him occasionally, over the next weeks, but I’m not sure I ever knew his name.
Looking back, I have a sense that people with depression, like me, were kept separate from people with addictions. We were put into groups for therapy with our own kind.
But there were times when the groups mixed. In yoga classes, for example. I remember this man – my neighbour with the rugby shirts and the drink problem – telling me that I was shit-hot at yoga.
I remember that because I drew pictures at the time. In my room, mostly. It was something to do with my hands, and helped me to make sense of what was happening to me.
Sun Salute and the Serenity Prayer.
Sometimes I included a speech bubble in the pics, and his line went into one of them.
Many of those pictures can now be seen in my new book, A Speccy Man Has A Breakdown.
It’s a limited edition hardback (250 signed and numbered copies). At the time of writing, 97 copies have already gone.
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